


Testing

by sshomoerotica



Series: TWD Rickyl Drabbles [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, Gen, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-05 09:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14041236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshomoerotica/pseuds/sshomoerotica
Summary: Daryl, alcohol, and the quiet between watches.





	Testing

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just a sucker for the idea that Daryl has a Thing™ for softness when it comes to Rick, but he hasn't entirely come to terms with that.  
> I initially wanted this to be a scene where Daryl jerks off to the idea of Rick being Soft™ with him, but that didn't happen. Oh well.
> 
> Not beta read. :))

 

 

Daryl finds an old flask with something that could strip paint and makes his eyes water. He's not on watch; Glenn is up, and then Carol, and tonight Daryl has the dark hours to himself.

It's raining out, edge-of-winter autumn rain that's cold and miserable; otherwise, Daryl would be drowning his endless thoughts with hunting, the sussurus of rain through the trees and the never-ending groaning, the stumbled footsteps of the Walkers.

Instead Daryl is stuck inside, because the group can't afford to deal with a cold, least of all having their main source of food laid up with a fever.

Daryl sloshes the potable paint thinner in the banged up little flask and listens to the rain against the windows, and the soft murmur of voices in the Block. He isn't far, but he's gone enough to get quiet, up on the upper levels in what was once a security roost for the guards. The glass door window is long gone, not even shards on the ground. There's still a working door, covered in what might have been assumed to be rust spots, once upon a time when the world didn't go to hell.

It gives Daryl a perch as well as privacy, two things he's found he likes when it comes to this group.

The liquor stings his dry, chapped lips and burns all the way down, makes him gasp and grit his teeth.

_That'll put some hair on yer chest, ey, baby brother!_ Merle's ghost cackles, sharp and pitchy. Daryl rubs a hand against his sternum, feels the searing heat and lets it run through his veins, make his face warm and his limbs heavy.

Can't get too far gone. The prison is like to make them soft if they aren't careful, and Daryl knows a thing or two about that. He tucks the flask away, closes his eyes and listens.

Mostly everyone's sleeping. He can make out Hershel's deep, slow snores like a hound dog sleeping on a sun-warmed porch, all stutter sighs and soft snorts caught in his nose. He can't hear Beth or Carol, but he also can't hear lil' asskicker, and if they aren't taking advantage of her being asleep, then they're both fools.

No sooner does he think about her then it seems Jude hears his very thoughts. Daryl has listened, learned, and memorized every sound that she makes. So he knows  - he knows that quick, startled gasp followed by grunting, breathy noises of discomfort.

He waits to hear Carol, the muted sound of discomfort in her bones as she rises. Or Beth, hurrying to shush Jude's cries, placating sweet-words stumbling in whispers off her lips into the dark.

What he isn't expecting is Rick's smooth, soft summer drawl, low and gravely. Her cries stumble as she is, presumably, soothed by being picked up. She's growing like a _weed_. Daryl can still remember the newborn weight of her in his arms, so small and warm. He's never known a baby like this before; seen one every day, watched her gradual growth only to be shocked by the sudden realization of time passing as Jude one day was strong enough to hold her own head up.

Rick is whispering below him, voice moving to indicate he's taken them on a walk, out from the sleeping quarters to the dining area. Trying to protect people's quiet, their turn to sleep.

The sweet, warm, slow tone of Rick's words are turning to honey dripping slow and cloying down Daryl's spine. He shifts, losing a long, tiring battle as the edge of drunkenness softens his normally ironclad inhibitions.

Sound still carries through the broken window, so he can't be too careless.

His thoughts skid away from the here-and-now, carried away by the domesticity playing out beneath him. The image in his mind of Rick flickers, unable to settle between the bloodied and battle-bruised and the soft and sleep rumpled.

Rick, murmuring in that sweet, hushed voice to him. Rick's lips, warm and gentle, tracing kisses up and down his neck. Daryl tilts his head, allowing the imaginary Rick more space to move.

Used to be Daryl never had soft fantasies -- never had fantasies at all, actually. Used to be he only ever knew rough fucks that rode him hard and put him away wet, but that before the world went to shit and all Daryl knew was sneaking off to truck stops; lying to Merle; not commenting when he threw around words like fairy or fag. Used to be he sometimes even threw them around himself, like prey being smart enough to lay false tracks.

Now, though --

_Well_.

Now Daryl is different. He knows Merle would laugh to see it, sneer and throw a few good punches Daryl's way. But Daryl can't help it. It's only Rick -- Rick who went back for Merle; who was willing to go to war for Glenn; who was the only one to take off, hurdling the traffic barrier and barreling off into the trees after Sophia.

When everyone was sharp, like palisades along the perimeter of this group to keep Daryl out, Rick let him in. He didn't group them together, Daryl-and-Merle. For perhaps the first time in his life, Daryl was his own person. Not dragged down by the Dixon name, or Merle's charming personality. It was a heady, dangerous thing.

Rick gave Daryl a chance to find out who he really was; what he really believes in; what he's willing to fight for.

Down below, Rick starts humming some little lullaby. Daryl can't help the thoughts that flood him. Imagining the sensation of that humming, pressed against his skin. The imaginings are colored by the thin warm light of dawn, the way the morning air smells around here with the thin mist that rises off the river.

There’s a flicker of interest, a faint flaring of something deep and low, but Daryl doesn’t stoke it. He only closes his eyes and lets his thoughts wander, guided by the homing beacon of Rick’s voice and sheltered by the walls of his hideaway. It feels like he’s sheltering something, keeping watch over it, letting it grow when maybe it should have been left to die. It’s a timid and fragile thing, but it has strong roots and Daryl won’t remove it, won’t trample it with heavy, unforgiving feet.

There are plenty of hours left ‘till Daryl takes his watch, and what he does — what he thinks about, and who — are no one’s business but his own, in the dark.


End file.
